


Bound to Crack

by orbiting_saturn



Series: Wild Living series [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Comeplay, M/M, Masturbation, Masturbation in Shower, Puppy Piles, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-19
Updated: 2012-11-19
Packaged: 2017-11-19 00:50:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/567185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orbiting_saturn/pseuds/orbiting_saturn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Now is the perfect time to protest. Stiles doesn’t, not anymore than he did when Derek spanked him like he was a sassy schoolgirl.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bound to Crack

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to A Look of Wild Living

The first thing Stiles does when he gets home is shower. He strips down to the skin and leans into the tiles, water so hot it stings and prickles his back, flows down in warm gushes through the dip of his spine, the indent of his cheeks. It’s like acid on the welts of his ass. 

He whines a little and twists his forehead hard against the wall, so hard his skin squeaks against it in protest. Heart jumping so fast and barely able to catch a breath through all of the steam, but every one of his nerve endings seem attached to the glowing belt-stripes Derek left on him. It _hurts_. It hurts so fucking bad, but not in the way Gerard’s bruises had. Those had gone so deep in his muscle, ached for days, but deeper still, like they’d writ his shame into his bones. 

Derek’s welts rise up on skin only, like a tease because they could have gone deeper. _Derek_ could’ve gotten deeper, all the way inside of Stiles and he wouldn’t have protested at all. Derek gave Stiles a new kind of hurt, one that washed away all the old ones for just minutes. The lashing felt like it lasted for hours, but it didn’t, and it was nice getting lost in it. Because if Stiles was hurting for Derek, feeling the slap of the leather on his skin, he wasn’t hurting for anyone else. Stiles could hurt for Derek, easy. Derek did so much hurting of his own and here was a place where they could meet in the middle.

It didn’t make sense. Stiles’ head was all swimmy, vision blurred when he blinked, lashes heavy with water. He reached a hand back, ghosted fingers over his left cheek. There was a new map back there now, not the mole-spotted braille Stiles was used to reading on his body. No, now there were thick lines of burning, etched into him. They made his whole body hot and tight, seared over him in shivery little rushes when he played with them, cupped his whole palm around the curves of his ass.

Stiles also remembers Derek’s hand on his dick, curling and tightening with just a bit more pressure than he usually liked. It worked him hard and fast, angle not right from how it reached up between his legs, pressing Derek’s wrist into the tight clench of his balls. 

In the shower like this, with the steam making his lungs tight, gasping breaths, Stiles forces the tip of his finger into his ass. He gets it as far as the middle knuckle and holds while he jerks himself. Stiles strokes and thinks of Derek’s scent, strokes and thinks of Derek’s wet tongue laving at his ass cheeks. Stiles wrings himself too hard and too fast thinking of the sounds Derek made when he was jerking himself off in the bathroom after. Stiles hadn’t left until he was sure he’d heard Derek come. Stiles comes now, thinking about the bitten off howl. 

*

A week goes by and they don’t see each other.

Another week goes by and still they don’t see each other. 

By the time week three rolls around, Stiles is nearly jumping out of his skin. The welts were gone after only two days. The bruises faded after five. There’s not a traces of Derek on his body and Stiles is beginning to think he dreamed up the whole thing. 

A day before week four, Stiles gets kidnapped. Of course he does. 

*

It sounds sort of mean, even in his own head, but Stiles has always found twins to be intensely creepy. There’s just something not _on_ about two people looking like one, being so closely bonded that they can finish each others sentences. Stiles knows it’s an unfair prejudice, but it’s not his only one and usually it’s so small and barely there that it pales next to all of his other issues. 

If Stiles had really considered what it might be like to be kidnapped by the Alpha pack, he would have imagined chains and torture. Maybe a nice puppy collar and some disparaging words thrown his way. He certainly wouldn’t have imagined being coddled and cared for. 

Stiles is being treated like a pet. A well cared for pet on house-arrest, but a pet all the same. The twins, especially Ethan, like to stroke his short-cropped hair against the grain and even scratch him behind his ear. They feed him all of his favorite foods (and Stiles doesn’t even want to know how they know what those are) and he’s started to suspect he might be getting fattened up for dinner. 

The twins are left in charge of “caring for” Stiles with only one maxim. “Don’t fuck him,” Deucalion had said. 

Just those words had thrown Stiles into a panic attack so severe that he’d blacked out for an indeterminable amount of time. He came to with his head pushed down between his knees and Aiden stroking his neck. 

“Shh, Stiles, sssh,” Ethan cooed on the other side of him, blocked in and pinned by matching bookends. “I know you think we’re monsters, sweetie, but we’re not. We won’t do that to you.”

“We promise,” Aiden chimed in. 

Stiles believed them. Even as the hours turned into days and Aiden and Ethan stroked his body in bad-touchy ways, pressed kisses behind his ears and nuzzled deep into his neck, Stiles never thought they would rape him. It was a small consolation. 

*

Taking Stiles was a test for Derek. 

A few short hours after being “rescued”, Stiles is showered, skin scrubbed almost raw by Scott and Erica to scour away the scent of the Alphas. He’s bundled into a puppy pile that somehow has his ear resting against the hard muscle of _Jackson’s_ abs and Stiles wonders if Derek passed the test.

*

When Stiles wakes, he’s alone in the pile of pillows and blankets. He’s not a wolf, but he can still smell the lingering scent of Jackson’s cologne and Erica’s hairspray. There’s also something rich and spicy in the pillow under his cheek that he thinks might be Boyd. 

Stiles knuckles away the sleep crust in his eyes, cracks his jaw on a huge yawn and stretches long and hard. He twists in the tangle of sheets and turns, blinks into the shadow heavy gloom of the train car and sees Derek lounged out sideways on one of the bench seats, watching, just watching Stiles.

Stiles is still sleepy and a little bit drunk on puppy love, so he doesn’t have anything to say really, just blinks back at Derek’s long, heavy stare. 

“Are you okay?” Derek asks, face all stoic like he doesn’t really care about the answer, but his eyes are just a shade too wide to really pull it off. It’s been over a month since they’ve seen each other and the last time Derek was spanking Stiles’ ass for being a bad, bad boy. How should they even look at each other now, Stiles wonders. 

“I have to pee,” is Stiles’ oh-so-eloquent response. Really, he feels like a dumbshit for having nothing better to say, but it’s so true. Stiles has to pee like a racehorse. 

Derek snorts and his lips tilt up in a smirk. He goes a little looser in the shoulders and Stiles hadn’t even noticed until now that he’d been just a little rigid, held just a little too tight. “You know where the bathroom is.”

It takes some squirming and wriggling, but Stiles manages to kick away the blankets. The train car floor is cold on his bare feet and Stiles dances from foot to foot, noticing with some horror that his dick is hard and bobbing under the shorts he’s wearing. They’re not his shorts either, just a little too loose in the waist and the ass, worn gray cotton with a button over the flap. They’re probably Derek’s, Stiles thinks, and he has a strange moment to feel surprised because he doesn’t really take Derek as a boxers kind of guy. 

When Stiles’ gaze skips guiltily back to Derek, the other man’s not looking anywhere near his face. His hooded eyes are pinned right over Stiles’ hard-on, mouth dropped open and huffing deep breaths like he’s scenting the air. Because he is, because Derek can smell Stiles with his werewolf nose. 

Stiles hesitates a moment, thinks about climbing into Derek’s lap and grinding his dick into the scrunched up muscles of his stomach. Of course, that thought flies away when Stiles’ bladder gives a throb so deep it aches, makes his cock jump in his shorts again, so Stiles huffs a frustrated breath and walks away. 

Pissing with a hard-on is some kind of strange torture. Stiles’ curses God’s sense of humor as he leans over the toilet, propped one handed on the wall as he forces his dick far enough down to take aim. He has to breathe roughly through is nose for a minute, force his body to relax and the stream stutters out of him in short bursts. 

A satisfied groan rumbles out of him when his muscles finally let go and a long arc of piss splashes into the toilet. It makes Stiles a little light-headed with relief and he pees for what feels like forever until the stream dies down into dribbles and he’s left with an empty bladder and a boner hard enough to cut glass. 

Stiles gives his dick a quick shake and a slow stroke. One need met, he moves seamlessly on to the next one. Staying hunched over the toilet, Stiles pulls his hand off of the wall and fists it in the black t-shirt he’s wearing. This must be Derek’s too, he thinks, and drags the hem up over his belly, pulls tight so he can press his nose in and sniff. There’s just the faintest hint of detergent, but Stiles has a good imagination and his hand speeds up a little, loose at the head and tight at the base.

Another hand closes over Stiles’, stops him mid-stroke and has him whining, eyes clenched shut. And Derek is behind him now, like something Stiles conjured up, all the way in his space so they’re met from shoulder to thigh. 

Stiles’ legs are spread just a little, so Derek notches himself right into the space left there for him. He hooks his chin over Stiles’ shoulder and speaks right into his ear. “Does it smell like me?” Derek asks all grumbly rough, fingers overlapping Stiles’ fist to keep it still on his hard-on. “Can you smell me on you?” 

For a second Stiles can’t think through the hard, hot press of Derek’s body draped over him, can’t parse the meaning Derek’s words. But then he tastes it, the dry cotton he’s got shoved in his mouth, bit between his grinding teeth, Derek’s shirt he’s wearing and sniffing while he gets himself off. 

Stiles unlocks his jaw and spits the fabric out, licks and licks at his dry lips enough to say, “No wolfy senses, remember. Can’t smell it, but I know it’s there.”

Derek hums and licks at the shell of his ear, releases his grip on Stiles hand only bat at it, smack it away from his dick. Stiles huffs a protest, but lets go of himself, raises both arms to brace himself on the wall while Derek takes up the stroking of his cock. Stiles’ toes curl on against the cold floor and fucks himself into Derek’s grip, humps his ass back against him.

“They didn’t fuck you.”

It’s not a question, but Stiles answers anyway. “No,” said all shaky and relieved. 

Derek’s hips thrash forward, hump so hard into Stiles that his knees would give out if there weren’t a muscled arm banded around his waist. Derek gives a handful of fast, hard strokes, the kind Stiles likes best from him and he’s seconds, just seconds, from coming when the bastard pulls off. 

“Ah, fuck!” Stiles protests, humping his dick into the thin air. “You fucker,” he grumbles. 

“Yeah,” Derek agrees, crushes his pelvis into the give of Stile’s ass. 

Derek’s dick is a long, thick line, caught behind the denim of his jeans and Stiles’ shorts, but it’s there and it’s hot and ready for Stiles. 

Derek drags and shuffles Stiles to the side, manhandles him a few feet over until they’re in front of the sink. He drops Stiles there and lets him sag his weight on his arms, elbows pressed hard into the cold porcelean. 

Derek holds him down, bent over the sink with a palm in the center of his back while he opens the medicine cabinet and rummages around. Stiles can barely fucking breathe because he’s just that hard. And his head isn’t screwed on right because he’s pretty sure that Derek is looking for lube to fuck him open with and now is the perfect time to protest. Stiles doesn’t, not anymore than he did when Derek spanked him like he was a sassy schoolgirl. 

When Derek finds what he’s looking for, he drags Stiles’ shorts down just enough to bare his ass. He shoves both of their shirts up just far enough to let them rub bare skin to skin. 

A cold stream of lube gets squeezed right out between Stiles’ spread cheeks, makes him jump a little where hot meets cold. Derek is panting like a racehorse in his ear, hands sweeping too roughly over all of Stile’s bared, over-sensitized skin. Over his own breathing, Stiles can just make out the sound of Derek’s zipper, but it gets lost in a cry when two of Derek’s fingers rub through the lube on his ass, smear it into the tight clench of his hole. 

Stiles is blind for a second, then seeing stars because his eyes are smooshed hard into the meat of his own forearm. His teeth are gnawing on his lip when he can get his mouth closed for long enough, long enough to whine and gasp because Derek is dipping two fingers straight into his ass. 

It’s not gentle at all. All Stiles can feel is Derek’s hot breath on his neck and rough fingers pushing lube just past his rim. It’s just a few shallow pushes, not a deep finger-fucking like Stiles expected, just wetting him up with lube and then going straight for the gold. 

It’s too big. Stiles lets out this startled bark of pain and shock when Derek sets the head of his cock against his hole then pops it right on in, past that tight ring of muscle that wants to force it back out. 

“Ssssh,” Derek soothes, hands skimming up and down Stiles sides. “You’re fine. You can take it.”

Stiles isn’t sure who Derek is trying to convince here. Not that it matters because whether Stiles likes it or not, Derek is forcing himself in, inch by slow inch. And Stiles _is_ taking it because there’s no wriggling away from that long, invasive stretch. His body just spreads right open under it, aches and burns from the stab of it. There’s so much of Derek and it’s getting jabbed into him with short, hard thrusts. Derek grunts with each hard won inch until they’re flush together.

Apart from the hurt, and there’s plenty of it, Stiles feels this strange, shocky pressure. Derek’s cock is deep in his guts, touching all along his insides and there are nerves in his ass that Stiles could never have imagined. He wants to force Derek out and wants to take him deeper. 

“Come on,” Stiles gasps and swallows, blinks sweat from his eyes. “Come on, fuck me.”

Derek groans and gives Stiles a short, deep thrust. It’s just a slow roll of his hips, making him shift slick and delicious in Stiles. He’s panting hot breaths into the back of Stiles head, warm gusts over his scalp. Stiles is getting hard again and wasn’t even aware that the pain made his dick go soft for a minute. 

The next stroke is longer, Derek pulling out and shoving in, and it has Stiles whining. He doesn’t like it as much on the out-stroke, but the in-stroke makes it worth it. And so it goes, for a moment, just this slow in and out, Derek letting Stiles loosen up for the ride. 

Derek reaches beneath Stiles and gets a palm flat on his belly, pulls him into the next hard shove. It’s like he’s trying to feel out the head of his own dick, through the muscle and flesh on Stiles’ stomach, like he can sense it deep inside. 

“I’m gonna come inside you,” Derek huffs into his hair, smears the words there where it’s close enough to melt Stiles’ brain. Stiles hadn’t even thought about asking for a condom, but now he’s thinking about Derek’s bare cock in ass, nothing between them and it’s so dirty hot. 

It’s stops being slow, Derek just starts slapping his hips forward, gutting Stiles with every thrust. And Stiles’ cants his ass up for it, the elastic of his shorts cutting into his thighs when he tries to spread. The head of Stiles’ dick keeps hitting the underside of the sink and his ass still stings, but now there are shocking jabs of sensation when Derek’s dick glances across his prostate. It doesn’t seem intentional, because Derek has gone all growly and mindless, hugging Stiles too tight and hammering his dick into him.

Derek is going to come soon and it’s strange that Stiles, a virgin, should be able to sense it just from the frantic way Derek is grinding into him. Somehow, Stiles gets an arm free, reaches under the sink to fist his own dick. 

Stiles just about swoons with pleasure, even though that sounds pretty fucking dramatic, but yeah, his hand on his dick and Derek fucking into him with rabbit-fast thrusts gets him seeing stars. Stiles comes almost immediately, balls drawing up and shooting out slick to the wringing of his tightly curled fingers. 

When Derek comes close behind him, he doesn’t howl or growl, doesn’t bite and mark. He just makes these soft “ah, ah, ah” sounds that come off as a little vulnerable, despite the hard punch of his hips. 

Stiles thought he might feel the hot rush of Derek’s come in his ass, but he doesn’t. Derek’s dick goes harder, jumps inside of him, but Stiles doesn’t feel like his insides are being hosed down or anything. 

He waits Derek out, come-drunk and slumped over the sink like a broken doll. Derek stays inside for a long time after, pressing his hips tight against Stiles, churning and churning until he goes too soft to stand it.

It’s not until Derek pulls out that Stiles feels the warm rush of come, it dribbles out of him, a slow trickle down his thigh. But then Derek’s back again, shoving three thick fingers into his sore hole and it’s hard enough to make Stiles curse and twitch. 

“Fuck,” Stiles grunts. He reaches back clumsily and smacks feebly at Derek’s arm. “Knock it off, asshole.” 

Derek swats Stiles ass with his free hand, just a swift crack of his palm against skin. It makes Stiles jump and hiss, cuts his puppet strings so fast he slumps into the sink, cheek smooshed up against the soap dish. 

“I do what I want,” Derek grumbles, swirls his fingers around so they bump Stiles’ prostate and make him whimper.

For a little while, Stiles just slumps pathetically while Derek plays with his ass. When it seems like he might just pass out from the overstimulation, Derek gently removes his fingers and gathers Stiles up against his chest. 

“Shower or sleep?” Derek asks, nuzzling in against Stiles’ neck. 

“If I say shower, is there any chance you’ll leave my ass alone while we do it?”

“Huh uh.”

“Sleep then,” Stiles replies. So Derek walks them back to the train car because Stiles’ legs are turned to jelly, but the joke’s on him. As soon as they’re spooned up together, Derek gets a hand between his legs and two fingers shoved inside. Stiles is made to fall asleep just like that, but he figures there are worse things.


End file.
